


From the Ashes

by Tee_Bee



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, will tag more as the story progresses
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-06
Updated: 2020-10-07
Packaged: 2021-02-25 13:33:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 16,840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22296769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tee_Bee/pseuds/Tee_Bee
Summary: This takes place a few years after the destruction of kings landing. It will primarily focus on Jon for the first few chapters, the north and south westeros. How it is that they are dealing with the broken wheel and how they try and come to terms of what has happened in their lives. There will be mentions of Essos through the chapters, building a bigger picture until it is reintroduced.Tags will be added as we move forward
Relationships: Jon Snow/Daenerys Targaryen
Comments: 30
Kudos: 54





	1. Oath breaker

The winds swept violently across the frozen ground lifting the snow and creating whirls of frozen wind that shook the canvas angrily from outside. It was only mid-day, but the sun had barely made its presence known past the darkened clouds that mottled the sky.

“It looks like we’ll be looking at another few feet of snow again”

“Aye, and to think we all expected anything different those many moons ago”

“I never expected to even be standing here if were being honest”

“And we know whom it’s is we have to thank for that, give this to him when you see him next would you?”

A young woman of about four and twenty handed her father a rolled pair of trousers she had just finished sewing. The fur to the outside were made of lightweight, glossy, deep brown northern elk fur that had been harvested at the end of summer. She had sewed it together using sinew, barely visible even at the seam that goes down the front. Inside, white fur from a stoat were inserted, lining them for the true North’s freezing temperatures.

“Thank you, Munda, I know he always appreciates your worry for him”

She bowed her head and made her way back to the care of a small child that played idly near a brazier.

“If it weren’t for him...well I wouldn’t have known what it be to be a mother”

“We’re is Ryk now that you mention?”

“Out hunting I assume, since the walls been down it’s given plenty of more occasion to find respectable game”

“Aye, the beasts are moving into these lands again”

With that the man pushed open through the tent and made his way out into the isolated landscape

* * *

"How long?" the large wildling asked as a younger man of a lean build silently gathered his belongings. No answer came from the raven-haired man. His hair was worn loose, and finger brushed to keep it out of his face. He was trimming his beard. It was a liability during this season. Once wet, it would hold water against the skin until frozen, accelerating the onset of frostbite.

"how much longer will this last?" we've seen four summers pass us now"

"aye, and yet we did not seem to find peace within them”. His hand was steady as he used flakes of dragons glass to get a good line near his cheeks.

"Those are not your wars to fight little crow"

"I did not pierce the heart of the woman I loved for more of the same world we fought to change"

There was silence from the wildling at first, defeated in trying to convince him otherwise, he spoke again

"Well Munda made these for you, for the journey back" the burly man handed the trousers to his friend. Jon grabbed the furs admiring the care that had been put into this piece.

"She could be trading such fine work" his voice sounded hopeful, but it did not match the features on his face, tired, lonely, defeated.

"aye, but you know Ryk...has more than plenty of hunt left in him than they could profit from" he opened the solid doors that closed off Jon’s solar from the outside world. He took a step out letting the dim sparkle of candles from the stone hallway illuminate his way out.

"you know Jon, you never made your vows this time around" and with that the large man made his way out of his solar.

That first year after the destruction had been a blur to him, only memories being the last before that dreadful moment. He had found solace of such thoughts within the company of mead, mulled ciders and whatever quality wine made it up north past the wall. If it had not been for Tormund, he would have ended up drowning in his own internal stew that accompanied him after a heavy load of drinks without a proper meal to soak them up.

Some days he wished Tormund hadn’t had found him. That maybe then he would be able to enter the eternal state of darkness he belonged in. Instead he fought his friend daily to quench his thirst for dreams that took him to better times, or even ones that seemed so real he wished he would never wake. But Tormund persisted, sometimes even having to become violent to get him to cease his antics.

In time he was able to wean himself off the toxic elixir. Instead focusing on helping the wildlings rebuild and call Harhome, home. But that was his only escape, as when night would fall and his eyes closed, his mind would wander. Oft nights he would have dreams where warmth washed over his body, and the snow turned to sand the color of rust and the sun would shine so bright above him engulfing him within its grasps, that he would wake with a sheen of sweat and fever. Tormund suggested he throw off some of his furs during the night or lay with a woman to get the proper warmth his body sought. Jon doubted that would of helped but took the furs for a few nights. He still woke up.

Other nights he would enter Ghost and see the world through his eyes once more. The wolf would prowl the lands of Winter disappearing for days at a time. He searched for something, Jon could feel it, but the trail had gone cold and the wolf was desperate to find it again. He tried not entering Ghosts mind, he always found a kill and like all deaths the metallic scent of blood was the same in all creatures, eyes that looked back at him pleading for their life. It caused Jon great distress to wake and recall the last moments with the taste of iron still lingering in his mouth.

Jon grabbed Longclaw and placed it in his scabbard. Out here he hadn’t had to use it, as arrows where the better choice for hunting. He felt at the pommel, its ridges cold to the touch quickly warmed as he held his hand on it. Soft padding and scraping of claws approached. Ghost only stared up at him.

“It’s time to see Sansa I suppose”

She had at first sent a raven asking Jon to return. Though Jon never responded, she would still write to him. The first few letters spoke about the difficulty of rebuilding Winterfell, there was much destruction that had transpired during the long night. Then, when he would not answer they became repentant. He didn’t particularly care to read them, using them as tinder for the fires that warmed his solar. Here and there he would take some time to read through them, always ending the same, as tinder.

The last few she had written spoke of harsh times that had befallen the North. Sansa no longer searched for an answer from him and had taken to writing as a means of her own escape. Sometimes he wondered if it would have made a difference if Sansa had not said anything. He doubted it, Samwell knew, and so did Bran and that secret wouldn't have been kept hidden for long. Many nights he pondered how Eddard was able to keep it hidden for all those years, assuming everyone believed his honorable nature. How did it not eat him up inside? Even Howland Reed had taken the secret to his grave, or wherever it was he resided if he still lived, no one had heard of him since he disappeared so long ago. He wouldn’t have been surprised to know that the secrete was what did himself in. But not Sansa, oathbreaker she was, and the gods did not look kindly upon them. _oathbreaker, kinslayer, queen slayer. Murderer._ he reminded himself every day of his own sins. Once he had broken vows as the nights watch, and he paid with his life. He awaited the day he'd pay his penance for these sins, they had yet to come.

Jon grabbed the rest of his things and made his way out slowly, hesitant at first, turning to look back at the room that had become a safe haven for him. _four summers_ He had tried hiding from the world, but he who thought they could was delusional. He pulled on the iron handle that adorned the simple soldier pine door and closed it behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have noticed people like darker stories and will try to implement this into the chapters. There will be deaths.


	2. Peccata

The first year the majority of all villages thrived through the cultivation of grain in large open fields, and generally grew in size until about the second year when an abundance of pests grew to an uncontrollable number. They decimated the granaries, leaving a shortage in the North. Beyond the wall it was already harsh but the freefolk had learned to live without grain, so it did not affect them as much. For southerners, less grain, meant it was harder to maintain a healthy population and many villages succumbed to hunger, many lives were lost during that time. It struck the old and the young harder than others, and those with fertile age lost many from lack of a proper diet.

Jon watched as young families littered the once wastelands of the North. Children were bundled in furs, frolicking and playing near the entrance to his keep. The freefolk were thriving, and for once they were not the ones crossing walls to live off the lands of other Kingdoms.

A small girl of about six name days ran up to Jon, handing him some vines with berries she had just picked. With more wildlife making its way up to their lands, came some plant life that was able to thrive in the cold. These came from straggling bushes growing near the rocky alcoves that surrounded the peninsula near Storrold's Point. The branches being thickly set with sharp spines, had scratched at the child's arms.

"Thank you Lana" Jon kissed her scratches and pulled one of the the bell-shaped flowers it produced,and placed it on her left ear. He popped one of green berries into his mouth. I was tart in flavour, as the child had yet to know when fruit would be ripe. Jon didn't show it though, he took another one of the hairy fruits and ate it with delight. She giggled in joy.

"my mother says you are to leave us for the south"

"its is true what your mother says"

The girls face turned into a frown.

"and Ghost?"

"Hes free to go as he pleases, I wouldn’t be to surprised if he comes back with wild hare to cook with your berries"

The rest of the children laughed and Lana gave him a hug.

"come back?"

Jon nodded a messed up her hair in the same manner he tussled Aryas at that age.

It was not the same for his kin below. Sana began to run into trouble when the population fell in the North. With less grain required, it was sold at lower prices, making it harder for them to trade for higher priced items. These problems were further exacerbated when the peasant cultivators tried to adjust their farming by bringing in more animals, leading to disputes with their neighboring villages over grazing land. As a result, many remaining families moved out, and heirs did not take over their ancestors’ holding of land. What few houses where left, began to seek answers from the Queen. _Who would be her heir? How would she handle the exodus? Where was Jon? And how would would they be able to trade with their neighboring kingdoms?  
_

Where was the North headed without proper trade?

The six kingdoms below where going through a financial recession and where not keen on purchasing their neighbors products. Who could blame them? They got their Iron from the Iron Islands, grain from the Reach, and every other marketable product apart from timber came from a kingdom with their own crown lands.

Sansa had sought out Jons advice, but he did not dabble in Southern politics. He would’ve stayed out of them completely if not for the rise in Southern folk trying to cross the wall. Jon would not have cared, but with them came the harsh reality of who he was. They hailed him King Beyond the Wall and word quickly spread. Northern houses rallied to bring him back, "make him King of the North again" they chanted sending their bannermen to pledge their allegiance. He stayed silent, he was no king.

Sansa saw this as an act of betrayal from her houses. "Turncloaks" she called them. Her maester advised her against the death penalty, they were already teetering in a diminishing population. The old man Wolkan was right, the North could not afford anymore deaths. He advised her to join alliances with another house, to give them "hope" for a new beginning. _Karstark, Umber, Mormont and even the Boltons repugnant as they be,_ Great houses had gone, extinct to see no heirs flourish. She had not many choices, least of all the Glovers.

Robette Had used the Ironborn's ships that had been left at Deepwood to escape death that came swooping in from the Lands of Winter. He wasn't able to deter death long. After Sansa was crowned Queen, he was rooted out from his lands and put to the sword. His death was not clean. This was the first time Sansa had passed a sentence, and it ture Northern manner she swung the sword herself.

Arya had wrote Jon once before she left on her expedition. She mentioned how the usual swish from a sword gliding through the air was missing during his execution. It was replaced with a thud as it hit the back of Glovers neck. Arya further elaborated how Sansa's already pale face lost all hint of color as she tried to remove the sword. It was heavy on her hand and further made difficult as it was wedged upon his cervical spine. When she was finally able to release it, a sudden gush of warm blood sprayed upwards staining her face. Arya felt it comedic to see her sibling hold back from retching in front of the crowd, lest of all Gawen and Erana Glover his heirs. She had wished Jon present to see such entertainment. He very much missed her youthful folly.

Ghost walked past him, as he neared the stables. At first the horses where nervous around the white wolf. Kicking, screaming, thrusting themselves against the paddocks until Jon calmed them down. There where other wolves around, Jon had seen them during one of the nights he had been inside Ghost. They smelled familiar, younger than him, but grey of fur with amber colored eyes. Could they have been born of Nymeria? Jon didn’t see them again, but smelled them often. Yet this was not the trail Ghost followed.

Where was Arya now? No one, but the Lord of Stormsend had heard of her since she returned from the three islands that inhabited the Sunset Sea. _Aegon, Rhaenys and Visenya_ , talk was that she had taken off once more toward the West. Talk was she had found ship logs from Elisa Farman, and had restored her food supplies after selling fruits from the three beautiful Targeryan Islands. All agree she confirmed they were still blessed with fruit and food that had only been tasted by a few Westerosi before. They fetched a high price, and she was able to pay for more experienced men to sail with her crew.

He hoped the stories of Farman were not just lore of men who had too much to drink and too many dreams. That hopefully someone would see her and her ship The Nymeria, even if in another few years. He just hoped and prayed that her ship was found not battered and decrepit like the Sunchaser, or what was believed to be the Sunchaser once, abandoned in a shipyard in Essos before disappearing for the last time. Maybe then she could come back with stories of her travels, and could even answer the daunting question everyone had _Where Drogon laid Daenerys to rest_. But they were only hopes, for He feared she would have the same fate, even if not by the same cause.

Gendry had visited once. He had lost hope to see Arya again. Even sent a crew once to sail to the Islands in hope to find anything that could point them to her. The Crew didn't make it past the Lonely Light. No one saw their crew again. Ironborn said the Farwynd had them, used them for sacrifice. Jon just thought Gendry didn't get an experienced crew, a faithful crew and they'd most likely taken their payment across the Narrow Sea.

He at least gave Gendry hope with the stories of Farman, for he had never heard of them before. Both agreed that Arya and Elissa displayed many similarities from sharp wits and high spirits, to a need of discovering faraway lands.

The horse he had mounted trotted casually against the white cover that spread across the lands. Jon watched as Ghost blended against the cover. Jon couldn’t help but smile as he remembered the day he had found him. If not for the stag, he’d never would have found the pups.

He wished to see Gendry once more. A decent man, and one who never wanted more from Jon than that of friendship. He'd gave him a queer gift once, said a merchant from Essos wore it for luck. A small silver bell engraved with dragons. When Gendry had asked where he got it from, the merchant only smiled and said it was a gift from his god.

Gendry explained he tried to buy it from him for twenty moons. But the merchant only laughed and said that’s the price of the bell in its weight. So Gendry offered him two gold dragons and caught the mans attention. The man offered to let it go for fourgold dragons, which Gendry found absurd and began to walk away. Two dragons and seven silver stars later he had the bell in his possession.  
  


_“Is this whom I think it belonged to?”_

_“Aye” was all Jon could utter as he chocked back his tears._

How they ended up in the hands of a merchant? No one in Westeros knew, and no other merchant from Essos could give him a logical answer. Jon had felt a rage he’d never felt before, knowing her body was defiled in her death, looted from her possessions. It seethed inside him, the rage he felt at himself. White knuckles from clenching his fist too hard formed, and he gritted his teeth from effort to remain silent. But his anger was like acid burning, slicing, potent. His face was red with suppressed rage, and when Gendry set his hand on his shoulder, Jon couldn’t help but release a torrent of salted tears and sobs.

Jon felt at his chest. Tied to a thin piece of braided sinew was the bell. Beside it pieces of smooth dragon glass adorned his heart. It was a constant reminder for Jon, not that he ever need it, of the great sin he had committed. He kept the bell with him ever since. It was the closest he’d ever get to his question. And for the first time in four summers he would be going back to the lands and people that helped destroy her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jon has not been south of the walls remnants since his exile. He only knows what’s been written to him and what conversations he’s had with people that have visited him. Take in mind that Jon had been drunk most of the first year and a recluse from southern kingdoms.


	3. Morbus

It was easy to think of The Wall as a solid, impenetrable hunk of ice. But in reality, the missing chunk near Eastwatch told them all how wrong they once had been. A dusting of fresh snowfall covered a thick layer of old portions of the Wall. Slowly, they were being compressed back into their origin creating a sloping valley back into the frozen ice shelf. When the top of the wall melted in the summer, water percolated down into the narrowing valley, which soaked it up like a hundred-foot-thick sponge.

The freefolk and Nightwatch got their first hunch that the Wall may be have been repairing itself, when they were chiseling boreholes through the wall in order to repair entry around Eastwatch by The Sea. They started finding dense, compacted layers of ice in core after core, just below the seasonal snow layer. It was Tormund who said, as if a “scab” had formed over the wound.

That was the second winter after the war. On The seventh moon turn in the third year during melt, they got an answer. The valley was growing upward, joining at the slope from runoff only found in that area of the wall. Brothers from Greenguard to Shadow Tower had not seen any melt on their end, a ranger from East Watch had said.

 _"There still be magic in those walls"_ said a woods witch that came to Hardhome once. The freefolk quickly ran her off, for she would still sacrifice small creatures to the weirwoods in the Haunted Forest. Jon did not try and find more of an explanation, though it was a strange feeling to see the wall somehow repairing itself.

* * *

Rangers had now been assigned to clean up the Villages surrounding the walls. Burning of bodies was now a requirement in the North, he was unsure of the practice in southern Kingdoms . Slowly, less and less cadavers were found, but it was sill the Rangers who would keep count and prepare their cremation. He saw a few rangers on his journey down. “Lord Commander” some would still refer to him, even when Jon had left Black Bernarr in his steed.

Others, ones who had been in the night's watch during the time of Alliser Thorne would spit in his presence. But it was few to many that dared show such disrespect. Jon didn’t blame them; he was no brother, no lord, not even a bastard. What once titles get had were replaced with others of loathing.

"Is mole's town still standing?" Jon questioned a young Ranger of ten and seven.

"I've only heard from those passing that it still hosts travelers" the youth said

"A green light still mark it’s entrance?”

“Aye, I think so” The youth scratched at the minor stubble growing at his chin. Those who had visited would be able to tell Jon that when the wights ran through the North, the original lantern had shattered. It was replaced, but never to green, always red to distinguish it from others.

Families that resided in the gift, tended to travel seasonally for a chance of work. When it was said that the stones turned over in the water and the cold went out of the winter, until about the eleventh moon. Some then sought shelter from when the cold was at its most potent, in houses in the countryside, where they considered to be their home village. Men, tended to make their nights warm in Moles town, and women, well that was a way for them to make a few silver stags or more if they still had their maiden head.

Those with families would remain in one place only as long as work was available, and Moles town was not their first choice. Most followed regular circuits within two or three neighboring Kingdoms, visiting the same farms and villages each year and becoming well-known to local people. Few families began to travel widely, and even fewer crossed the Narrow Sea to Braavos. Those who did, consequently had much weaker ties to the settled population and would not get as many opportunities. This gave them less reason to return.

After the surrounding rural economies of travelers collapsed. The demand for their hand work evaporated with need of inexpensive trade or services. Even the need for what minimal seasonal agricultural labor was left, as well as for the horses bought and sold by some Travelers, disappeared with the North's declining population. Families where keener on doing the work for themselves, to save a few more coppers, and horses began to be used for meat.

In response, some of the roaming Northmen migrated to King's Landing to work on construction sites or to collect scrap metal to remake armor for new vassal Lords. Most however, moved into towns and cities within the Southern Kingdoms, such as The Riverlands, Westerlands, and The Crownlands, in search of a new livelihood, and often in order to sign on for city guards. 

Far less chose to go to the Wall, but those who did, had better hopes of survival then those who did not. For once in many generations, could the nightswatch choose the men they’d like to keep within their walls.

Jon could see the once viable villages almost turn to rot during his travels down. Stark banners flopped raggedly against the wind, they were tattered, unkept, a sign of a weakened North. Once he may have burned it, ordered a new one put up in The Stark name. Instead he rode forth.

For a while few rumors circulated the Kingdoms about his true heritage, but they died down once Drogon never returned. To them he was Stark, and how once he had longed to hear that, it now it sickened him. The North did not remember.

How easily Northmen swayed with the winds, turning their backs on their Kingdoms if it blew too hard. They could dispute that they still follow a Northman as their King. This was true, but he no longer represented the North and their customs. Yes, he would be a Northern King in Southern lands, but no longer with his best interest the North. Jon sneered at the thought.

* * *

The air was no longer as crisp as before, and the once snowcapped landscape had turned into diluted greens and yellows against a grey sky. He was now in the lands that raised him, and a feeling of melancholy took over his thoughts. It’s flat landscape once produced a cacophony of sounds, now only a flutter of wings resonated the lands as doves spooked at the sight of Ghost. The usual morning chorus of birdsong, the gurgling stream that came from Long Lake and the thunderous stampede of hooves from galloping horses was missing, even the ever-distinguishable bleating of sheep present throughout some villages was absent.

“I never thought I’d see you here again” her voice wavered with feelings of sadness and joy

“As I” Jon stood atop the bridge that connected the armory and the great keep. Last they stood here together unaccompanied, he was leaving to Dragonstone.

Sansa leaned against a pillar, her temple resting against it, but still looking at Jon. A faint smile crept on her lips; her exhausted expression showed she hadn’t done so in many moons.

“May I ask...how are things in the North?” Her voice almost begged to hear of better times.

“I’ve only seen it in passing”

“I think we both know I mean your lands Jon. This...” she motioned with her hand in a circular movement, not moving her head from the pillar

“This is middle ground, grey like our skies, between the lands of white and black” she straightened back up and closed her eyes letting the back of her head now rest against the pillar.

“I wanted to see you Jon, many times I awoke ready to call my men to ride North, the True North as your people call it” she cleared her throat as her voice began to quake.

“But then I thought I’d be the last person you’d want to see” her eyes finally opened, and she looked at Jon. They were pink in color and wet with held back tears

There was a moment of silence before Jon answered. He tried to recall if she ever subtly mentioned wanting to see him. Truth was even if she had, he had most likely just quickly have glance over her lettering unable to process what he tore into pieces for tinder.

“The North is as always. Cold, white and full of freefolk”

“Full” she scoffed

“How I wish I’d be able to say the same” she paused. Swallowing a tightness in her throat.

“Have you heard from Bran?” She changed the subject

“No” The Broken King had not once made an effort to contact him. Well, in the way the average man would. Jon had seen the His birds. They would come every so often, windows through where Bran could see. They stopped coming as often after the Freefolk began shooting arrows at the pests. A bad omen they said.

It was as if he had said those words out loud to Sansa. For she cleared her throat in an attempt to conduct herself in a more dignified way.

"He does the same to me you know? watching through the eyes of those winged creatures” there was a heaviness in her voice.

"I think it’s been over three moon turns; last I wrote you?"

"aye" Jon agreed with her, it had been some time since her latest letter. It spoke of leaving Jon as the Heir of Winterfell if Sansa were to fall ill. She did not agree to his exile, and since her lands where not a part of the six Kingdoms she did not need comply with what was expected. This was why he had come, to formally deny any and all offers of Succession.

"Jon, I have no next of kin, and Arya..." she trailed off. She didn't need to finish what he already agreed with.

"Sansa..." his voice carried the heavy burden of needing to let her know of his denial.

"I fear our line will end here Jon"

"Then it must be as the gods will it" he answered her.

Sansa took a deep breath; it was not as if she had not expected this from Jon. A single tear released itself from the corner of her eyes, and she brought her hand up quickly to cover her face.

"He’s killed us off Jon" Her composure faltered, and she began to sob uncontrollably. Not long before, a terrible illness came to the North. It killed more people, even the strong and healthy, than the famine of before. It had begun in the South, in areas where the people still lived in filth. The first signs were a fever, with a terrible thirst, accompanied by dark blotches that began to form under the skin. Almost half the remaining population of The North died of it.

Jon was thankful many disliked the freezing climate past the wall, for not many not tried to escape to his lands. But for some parts in the North, Whole villages those that had withstood the famine had been wiped out by the disease. There was not many to till the fields, and subsequently driving those who were left to near extinction.

“Our People...they feel hopeless and afraid, they feel that the Gods are angry with them” He could tell Sansa’a felt it too, and once he would have comforted the scared young woman in front of him, but he could not find it in him to do so.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This will conclude what has happened in the North. Next chapter will follow up on the South, Sansa herself does not seem to have contact with her sibling.


	4. Arbitrium

“Never. Never would I dare doubt Your Majesty’s virtue; however, I would remind you of the service we…” Archmeaster though bumptious said in a careful manner.

Sansa sat as Queen in her chair, visibly enervated, presiding over a sitting of court. Apart from the usual attendance, a representative of House Manderly, House Cerwyn, Archmaester Sandhu, and the Queens cousin of twenty years, Lord Arryn of The Vale, was there too.

“Maester Sandhu I would have thought your gods would want us all to share in their bounty” Sansa interrupted

“My liege, while I see the strain your treasury is under, I cannot help but wonder how the canker of deception be somehow at the root of this suggestion, that I, or rather the citadel be burdened for reparations of situations that are not of our making”

“Your Highness” interrupts one of Sansa’s advisors

She looks up, and others turn to see that Jon has entered the room.

“My Queen, Jon Snow, Bastard of Winterfell, the white wolf, the undead, previous Warden and King in the North and known Leader of the freefolk” his titles are ran with a tint of doubt by one of Sansa's advisors

Jon could see the Archmeaster appears put out, regarding Jon with derision. Jon could feel everyone’s eyes on him as he crosses the room. He stands before Sansa, taking in her frailty. He could see her eyes are taking in his unkempt appearance during court. She had her handmaidens have clothes brought out for him bearing Stark colors, but he opted to not wear them, instead using the clothing he'd been sent north with.

“Come closer”

"Sansa..." he addressed her without the formality that was of common knowledge for someone of her stature as he took a step closer. He'd been summoned at sun rise by Maester Wolkan, to attend the held court of that moon's turn.

Sansa watched him tentatively for a moment. In her hands she slowly swirled a teaspoon of honey in a cup of tea, its soft clinking breaking the silence that stifled the room. Jon noticed that her usually regal facial expression sagged, lacking its stoicism. Her eyelids drooped and there was a slight lolling of her head, heavy with fatigue after a session of nighttime restlessness no doubt. Even her spoon barely skimmed the tea and altogether her frail limbs bore the appearance of being too heavy for her. 

“I fear my life may come to a end before the natural one to its childbearing years, and as of yet I’m not to find a suitable match with whom could give me an heir” He'd come to doubt this was the full truth, as he refused to believe that no man would come forward to try and produce an heir as well as binding their kingdoms. He'd thought the Manderlys would have at least crossed her mind. It give opportunity for expansion with what was left of their ships, but alas she snubbed them, causing a ripple between the kingdoms.

Jon doesn’t respond. He continues looking his kin in the eye. This was most likely what had kept her up these last few nights. He had denied her request for succession of any children he may sire, assuring her he would plant no seed for any heirs. Sansa reminded him he'd taken no oath and lived freely past the wall. leaving no surety in Jons words that he'd stick to his banishment, on an oath he had yet to renew, much less deny any urges a man may come to know.

“The time has come for me to conclude the issue of my succession... You nor any children of yours will be my heir as of your request" her voice was possessed of determination, raising her posture to one more rigid against her chair, her throat visibly moving against the ivory skin that covered it.

Jon remained fixed; a weight had been lifted off his shoulders. The thought she'd finally listened to him, and came to terms with his decision, fluttered in unease, as he witnessed the archmaester barely able to conceal a smirk that appeared on his face.

“While you are my eldest and only kin of Stark blood, for reasons that are only evident to you and I, since they've yet to formally be on display for all, you will not inherit this crown”

“Nor have I once sought it” he reminded her and all those who cared to listen

She took a sip from her tea not looking up at Jon. It almost seemed she hadn't heard him. Lost in her own thoughts, the kind that seemed to drain her every last drop of energy within her. Jon noticed her cheeks hollowed slightly, highlighted by dark bruising under eyes. Her once elegantly slender fingers, wrapped tightly against the cup, corpse like and frail. Her knuckles whitening against almost parchment thin skin. He hadn’t noticed how much weight she had lost until now. 

“In the event that I pass without a trueborn heir, and indeed my sister Princess Arya of Winterfell has perished at sea, that privilege and responsibility will instead fall to my closest Kin, Robert Arryn Lord of the Vale, as Brandon Stark the only living son of Eddard stark, has also relinquished his rights as Heir of Winterfell and is of unfit body to produce an heir of his own" she passed a piece of parchment stamped with the sigil of the Hand of the King to those nearby.

Jon looked at Lord Arryn who had trouble meeting Jon's eyes. He was no longer a sickly boy, but was no northern man. He lacked the spine, and spirit, hopefully maybe in time it would grow strong, but he was not his father's son. Robert noticed Jon staring and Straightened his posture regally. It didn’t suit him, thought Jon, not here in Northern Lands.

"Be it, as you have declined my extended graces, to legitimize any and all future children you may sire, as Stark; any and all future or current children you have sired... will be done away with, in accordance to both Southern law during the Baratheon reign, and now subsequently Northern law as well, as trueborn, natural born and legitimized Targaryen’s, ending the line as you have done with the Stark line based on your decisions soley. " her voice though strong, trembled slightly at her words.

Jon couldn't help but snicker at what he was hearing. The room fell silent, eyes shifting nervously between them, her face growing as still as the pool at the heart of the godswood, and a light draft feathered her auburn hair the same way the wind rustled the leaves of the weirwood. Like the trees, Sansa's vivid blue eyes could only stare back at him, stained red with anger mingled with disappointment, be it towards herself or him. Jon’s head throbbed from what he had just heard and he closed his eyes rubbing his temples.

> “I never wanted children, not when I knew what it was like to grow up a bastard. We were seen as nothing, but wanton and treacherous children born from lust and lies” the words hurt as he spoke them. 
> 
> “Not even when I first fell in love” gods he was so young and foolish those days, he sighed. Sansa listened to him, letting him take his time.
> 
> “She was a wildling girl...Ygritte, knowing what I know now, it was only Lust, the need of a green boy looking for warmth where he could find it. Even then, as foolish as I was, I wanted no bastards of my own”
> 
> “What happened to her?”
> 
> Jon thought of black arrows fletched with white duck feathers. _Not mine_ , he had told himself, _not one of mine_. But he felt as if it were, her death was a direct result of his actions. He put the arrow through her chest he used to tell himself.
> 
> “She died during an attack to Castle Black, it took me a long time to get over my guilt, for I had betrayed her, but I eventually did”
> 
> “You’ve taken no oath Jon, and the freefolk don’t understand our laws of succession, what if you find another woman again?”
> 
> “I did, and I’ve pledged my fealty to her”
> 
> “As your Queen, and she’s no more” She paused, and he nodded lightly, it hurt to hear it again.
> 
> “The guilt we carry Jon, the feeling of losing hope, courage, and dignity and knowing you’re the one responsible for it, it’ll pass the same way it did with That wildling girl of yours” Sansa reached out for Jon’s hand, placing hers lightly above his and caressing his knuckles lightly with her thumb.
> 
> “No. this guilt is unseen, unheard, a silent killer. It is pain that is too much to cope with, too hard to deal with and a truth you’ll never want to admit. It is something that you can’t escape, for no matter how hard you try it will always swallow you again. Constantly following you around, like a beast with an insatiable hunger, clawing at your heart and mind, eating pieces of you until there is nothing left" his voice shook with hurt and his throat knotted itself up painfully.
> 
> “You see, I don’t think you’ve ever let yourself trust, to have enough faith in anyone, to allow them close enough to learn to love you and you to them”
> 
> “She couldn’t have children Jon; she’d told us all, those wretched beasts where her children and look what they did, thats what your faith brought us”
> 
> “Aye, she risked her only children to give us another chance of life. It’d be the only time I’d wanted to give my seed, to give her back a child for what shed lost, for what she deserved, and I drove my dagger through that chance, for her, for you, for Arya and Bran.” he wanted to curse himself for thinking he was saving them, instead he should have been saving her. They had each other, she only had him. How quickly she fell when he couldn’t show her how much he loved her back, _A Targaryen alone in the world is a terrible thing,_ he left her alone, she had no pack.
> 
> “You were willing to seed a bastard then for her, but will let our houses now die with us Jon?”
> 
> “Our houses would have died if I’d let her live, the Stark name Sansa, it’s gone, as is mine” it be the gods will or his decisions, but that’s what was written, and the ink had dried.
> 
> He could see as Sansa took a deep breath, her eyes slowly lifting to look outside the paned window. There was not but a desolate landscape that reached for as far as their eyes could see. It was hard to imagine how It once teamed with life. Beneath Sansa’s calm exterior he could see an internal struggle to keep her thoughts to herself, to not say anything that would further push him away, but that was not Sansa.
> 
> “Well speak again on this matter soon” she removed her hand from his and quietly made her way.

Sansa put down her cup, her once white knuckles, flushing red at the release,. Hed seen this look before, it had been on Daenerys the day she decided to rule will fear, the day she felt she had lost him. and quickly turning her attention to the archmeaster

“I assume this has properly been noted by both Maester Wolkan and yourself, so there is to be no misunderstanding of my succession, and any if there be children of Jon Snow, born as Aegon Targeryan sixth of his name, a trueborn son and natural heir of Rheagar Targeryan and Lyanna Stark's union, they are to be treated as such, unless he is to retract his decision and name and heir of Stark blood" 

Jons silence confirmed truth to the notoriety of such rumor, causing a deafening silence. Uneasy shifting of bodies in their chairs, echoed the great hall. He knew many of the lords had heard the rumors, but none had heard it directly from either of their mouths. They looked at Jon awaiting him to say something, anything, but he could only stare blankly at the empty spaces that once held chairs around the great table.

Sansa noticed, and brought the attention quickly back to the previous topic before Jon walked in. Those present had but no other option than to turn their attention back to their liege. From where he stood he could see her jaw was tight, and her voice quaked in the same way Lady Catelyn’s would when having to discuss uncomfortable topics, mostly those that involved Jon.

"As you may be aware, to whatever degree you are aware of the world outside your own, I will assume that you are aware, that the Northern Kingdom is at war with itself. Matters as grave as these require commitment to their resolution and you, of this I am sure, cannot provide that commitment. Lord Arryn, however, can. He is green, and some of you may consider him soft, but he is eager to and he will lead my army against the newly treasonous Lord of Highpoint and adjacent house of Glover" she spoke to Ser Wylis Manderly, whom even though had lost weight from the obvious famine that surrounded them, sweated profusely at her words. Jon noted slight irritation on the mans face, but keeping to their words bit his tongue in court.

"I will assume this news comes to you as neither surprise nor disappointment. I do however see it as my duty as Queen to say it to you directly, if you’re not to assist with my army, and henceforth raising devastation to..."

Jon turned his heel, and made his way out of the Great Hall, Sansa had made her move. It didn't concern Jon, nor did he truly care, though he never expected her to turn into whom she had. It was the hypocrisy that sickened him. Revealing his identity had freed him of any Northern lords seeking for his lead, and with him past the wall with freefolk he was of no threat, but cursing a child, lest one that hadn’t even been in thought, deeply repulsed him. Tormund had been right, these are not his wars, and any suggestions he had to give where best off kept to himself.

* * *

  
Jon stood outside the solid wooden door ready to leave, Ghost only looking at him strangely, he had not seen what had just transpired and somehow still knowing. _Not much has changed_ fumed Jon. The wolf responded by making his way out the keep, stopping mid-way to make sure Jon was following. Beyond the gates of Winterfell, they trudged together through the blinding snow staring off into the lands beyond it. Ghost sat down in the snow, the wind blasting him as he looked off into the dark. 

Ontop his mount the windshear felt as arrows skimming his face. It was the kind of cold that punches, punctures and burns. The kind that rips the balls right off green boys and rattles a grown man's soul. It was something so frozen it was ready to steal even his air, his step and will as he blinked back at the snow. Ghost lifted his head and a puff of warm air dispersed around his snout. Above them the clouds where moving, misshapen masses that marked the only passage of time. 

“We have to get out of here” Jon mentioned to the large wolf, but he only responded by letting the snowfall gather on his face. They stayed like this for several moments until his undamaged ear perked and he rose unto his large paws, slinking silently into the haze. Jon kicked his gelding into a slow trot and followed.

The furs that Munda had put together withstood even the harshest of what the storm pushed through, if not for the inexperienced Gelding, Jon was sure they could’ve managed to push through to the light. Instead Jon set camp near a grove of soldier pines. The wind didn’t have the same strength pushing through their solid trunks, and the snow had yet to tumble down past their sturdy needles. He lit a decent sized fire, and checked the horse, he had never been this far south and had become spooked. Jon brushed his hand across horse’s rough black mane, feeling as the animal’s heavy breaths became lighter with his touch. Jon looked around for Ghost, but he had set off for his hunt. He placed his back against the rough bark of the pine, and closed his eyes, had get not much sleep that moonless night.

_The brook was opalescent at that hour, a mirror of the universe, a pack of wolves seemed otherworldly in their happiness. Back and forth across the frozen waters they chased, four pups scrambling after the carcass of a squirrel, the older wolves knocked them down, checking their small bodies into frozen grass at the shore._

_The largest wolf watched with golden eyes at what transpired before it. Next to it a smaller wolf, eyes lined in black looked into the trees. A pair of ravens sailed overhead, and apart from their jeering there was no other sound in the dense forest, but the sound of claws on the ice. Eventually the Larger wolf turned its attention to the ravens, the rest stood watching, heads cocking to the side. As though they were stunned by the trespassing of the black birds, and then one by one the wolves turned their heads and looked at him._

_The wolves watched silently, but they were talking to each other with flicks of their ears, the posture of their tails. They were making decisions, and after a few moments they decided to come closer. Even now among the freefolk, he still knew whose ancestors had inhabited these regions for centuries, these wolves stood apart, large robust creatures of grey and black markings. This was Nymeria and her pack, she welcomed him._

_The ravens croaked and rubbed their beaks at the branches, their shiny black feathers fluffing out of their head as another silently made his flight in. The black-eyed female bared her teeth at the winged creature, her fur lifting up off her haunches, only to be nudged by the larger wolf. The daring bird swooped down, grazing the smaller wolf and making its way to the pups, snatching the squirrel with its claws. The two others croaked, awaiting their meal._

_Nymeria watched in silence until the birds flew out of sight, then walked in silence towards the packs warm den. His breath hung before him like fog and snow quietly shifted beneath their paws. He stopped, turning back to look up towards the trees._ Jon awoke abruptly to the sounds of wings flapping. Bran knew he was past the wall.

He tried closing his eyes again, but the gelding started to tug on his rope, Beyond the safety of a trees there was a low graveling sound, muted by the surroundings winds. The gelding was spooked, jumping side to side, and rearing in a alarm. Jon observed past the curtain of white and saw a large shape looming closer.

A bear, towering over ten and two feet off his haunches, shambled through the trees, lips curled, head weaving, sniffing the frozen air, smelling the woodland visitors. Jon still unsure what body he inhabited couldn’t move, frozen he stared dead into the bears eyes, his reflection staring back as the beast raised, rocking its huge head with its gaping maw hanging open.

Slowly Jon tried reaching for longclaw to pull it out, in its panic the gelding broke loose from his rope and bolted from the camp. Jon, despite his terror managed to yank his bastard sword free, turning it towards the beast as it reared higher, emitting a guttural growl as he swatted at the falling the snow, and pawed at his own head. Jon’s fingers curled tighter against the wolf pommel as the bear stepped closer towards him, and with one big loping turn lumbered back into the darkness of the night. Jon’s heart beat against his chest as he watched wearily, and a warmth flushed his body gradually, slowly lowering longclaw in its process.

The wind was picking up, and blizzard winds crept in, greedily grasping at him. He bowed his head against intruding snowfall, standing up and taking a dazed step towards the opening. Jon only gazed out into the dark, then unsteadily back at the camp. Its orange glow giving a false sense of warmth, as beyond it, was a raging blizzard. The winds tore at him, pulling him with each step he took closer to the fire. Jon pulled on his cloak and closed his furs tightly around him, as tears froze and clung to his face. He poked the fire with his sword and got the flame to lick up towards him, greeting him with the warmth of a lover’s arms, he closed his eyes, letting sleep take him once more.


	5. Periculi

“My lords, I am most sorry for making you wait. I know you have travelled far and with great tribulation. I pray you know this time of civil unrest consumes me day and night”

As the Kings hand took his seat, servants brought food to the table as others presented flagons of drinkable wine from the septry. It was an odd sight to behold such abundance of riches during these times.

“I understand battle with the Ironborn was hard fought. Is this true?”

"It was, my liege. We lost some two hundred men” Edmure bowed his head in shame as the rest of the men ate, all but Gendy who only looked at him, swirling the wine within his cup, it was tart and dry. Their ale was better, but without enough grain to make it was unavailable to those who sought it.

“And how many prisoners were taken?” 

“Somewhere around a hundred, my Lord”

Tyrion dug into his plate, ignoring the undesirable response.

“And why is that? Where were the Knights of the Vale?”

“They’d gone north to fight the Northern wars" Edmure’s voice quivered with nervousness

Tyrion doesn't answer him, picking at his platter with well-oiled fingers.

“Lord Arryn of the Vale has pledged himself to Queen Sansa” Edmure cleared his throat taking a sip of the tart wine as he did. He was used to it, Gendry could tell in the way his face didn't grimace at its taste.

"In truth he'd pledged himself to fight for House Stark...in the North. Halfwit, got himself captured by some northern house who has all but joined the Ironborn to save their skins” The master of coin chuckled and drank from his own decanter. 

Tyrion huffed and raised his eyebrows in understanding the difficulties of the situation.

“Without the Vale, the Ironborn will push harder the next time around” Edmure sounded beaten, he’d lost too many men, and with almost every major war sweeping across his borders, it had left him severely depleted. It would still take a few more years or even decades to fully recover, and any ability to trade with the East was all but gone. Their ports had closed to all, but the Dornish and a few rogue merchants, they claimed death came with their ships.

"The Ironborn want back the Riverland’s, seems they want the same treatment as our Lords sister in the North” Bronn kicked his feet up onto the table and took a large swig of his glorified hippocras while licking his fingers clean of his meal. Hed not even made an effort to share his luxuries with his surrounding kingdoms.

“They are willing to spare young Robin for whichever kingdom gives them what they want” and after tipping his cup towards them, he took another drink. It seemed he was not suffering such losses as the others who surrounded him. Edmure pushed back into his chair and clamped his hand onto his head, Robin was his kin after all. 

“I refuse to pay Lord Arryns ransom, he's no prisoner and I rather believe him to be a traitor” Tyrion lets this sit, eating in silence allowing this to soak. Gendry boiled inside. If Bran had not refused to aid Sansa against Highpoint, the lordling would still be free. Moments pass.

“Your triumph over the Dornish was a most heroic one, heroic because unlikely. Our most recent loss to the Ironborn, however, should not have been suffered. Our strength in its entirety should have had those insipid salted bandits crushed. And I must conclude only that it was suffered with Robins help by joining the Northern Kingdom, and getting himself captured, he has betrayed our Six Kingdoms and that far from being a prisoner, your nephew is now an enemy of ours and, therefore, of yours” he had turned his attention back to Edmure while tearing a sliver of scrawny meat off the bird’s carcass on his platter. Gendry could only stare. The other men try not to notice, The reach was only able to hold off the Dornish with paid sellswords such as their Lord Paramount. Gendry wondered how much longer that Kingdom could withstand to give him those luxuries before he was torn like Edmure.

“Do you agree with my precis?” Tyrion questioned the boy’s uncle. The Ironborn had turned against the six Kingdoms not long after the first year. Yara had made it a point she wanted control of the Riverland’s, she believed Edmure incapable of ruling those lands and still held on to the promise Daenerys had given her.

“No. I believe yours to be the ramblings of an ill made spiteful creature” Gendry could no longer hold his tongue. Unified, they could hold off the Ironborn, but alone, the Ironborn were strong enough to take on an independent Kingdom.

“Gendry. Please. Stop this” Brienne of Tarth interrupted, she had been listening in the obscurities of the hall.

“Let him speak. I wish to hear him” Tyrion said without looking up, still digging for more tender dark meat. 

“My liege..." Brienne tried dissuading Gendry from further insulting her Lords Hand, but he persisted.

“Your ramblings are so saturated with spite and malice that you no longer know up from down, lest see anything beyond these monstrous walls” he gestured at their surroundings

Tyrion stops eating, paying Gendry his full attention, almost seeming to invite him to continue. 

“Robin Arryn has fought for the Starks, mayhap not the right one, but a Stark. And yet while you now slobber over that pigeon’s wing, he shivers in a frozen prison awaiting mutilation at the hands of the Ironborn”

“My liege, you must forgive Lord Baratheon, He needs rest. He only came to advocate for help in securing Lord Arryns release. Our lord’s sister, the Queen in the North, her efforts will be all for naught if Lord Arryn is put to the sword” Brienne continued to chime in

“I fear the battles we are fighting are being fought only to indulge your hateful madness. Our lands are now more riven with war than ever before. You have rebellion stewing in all corners. The Dornish are not finished. The Ironborn have only just begun, and the North, is all but gone. And for what? A crippled King who has his head lost in the clouds, ignoring his only kin as he looks for a beast that’s all but disappeared from these lands? Why do you think this might be, you half man? Who do you imagine might be to blame for this?”

The door to the small hall opened, and despite its well-oiled hinges it groaned in attention. Bran was carefully pushed into the room by Ser Podrick, who’s once youthful smile had all but disappeared.

“The Red God” 

“Next you’re going to tell me Deanery’s Targaryen still lives” Gendry guffawed at the absurdity of his King. Gendry chuckled once again and rose from his chair snatching the decanter from Bronn and taking a swig. He looked at the contents and swirled them in his mouth, it was sweet of honey but missing its known spices like pepper and cinnamon.

“you all madder than a June bug in summer” but the silence that befell the room ran shiver through his spine. Gendry looked around catching glimpses of the eyes of those around him. Their faces not faltering, but for Samwell Tarley who looked down in shame, and Edmure who was likewise confused as he with the statement. 

“and Jon Snow?” He gave back the sweetened concoction and croaked, almost dreading to bring him up.

“He does not know, nor will he” The corners of Brans mouth turned up, and Gendry felt the cold creep down his spine like a spider leaving a trail of his web. He felt the tingling sensation in his skin, descending until he was almost frozen to the spot. His stomach felt hollow; his feet heavy as when set in their armor; and his mind worryingly empty except of those last few words. All I he could do is pray, pray that Jon stays beyond the wall...


	6. Papiliones

The air was dry, and hot, and the soft muffled buzzing sounds of locust filled the air. A small child picked his way through the fringes of a field, scampering through the tall grasses, his tiny hands plucking at the slender wiry stalks. He was helping an elderly man pick enough to form small bundles. It was a tedious job, facilitated by the youth who didn’t have to crouch. Unlike the women and men who surrounded him with curved backs they could barely lift with the weight of years. 

As the child’s hands reached out for another stem, a red colored butterfly fluttered onto his hand. The sensation caused him to still, so as not to scare the tiny creature. Standing up, ever so carefully, he gazed quietly at the delicate wings, studying the butterfly. Its bright fiery colors dazzled in the heat of the sun, entrancing the child. Out of the corner of his eyes, he noticed a few more. He had found himself surrounded in a field entirely filled with their fluttering. Delighted, he spread his arms wide, moving through the tall grasses and butterflies, feeling and seeing the fluttering all around his head and shoulders. In his merriment, he stood in their midst and burst out

“ROARRRGHHH!!” 

His voice loudly pierced the air, sending tiny wings into flight, scattering them all around. For a moment all looked red, flickering their coppers like a bush fire. In his mirth he could not contain his laughter, until a figure poked through the tall grasses in the distance. Up on the pathway, that ran along the ridge the silhouette waved. 

The old man watched as the child crouched in wait. He waited silently in the shrubs along the path, as he did, a huge shadow lumbered toward them. With it, a gust of wind swirled rust colored sand around them, picking up speed and sending the remaining red flecks to hunker down into the safety of their fields. The child burst out running towards the silhouette, barely looking back at the old man, who grasped the thin woven hat that protected him from the harsh sun. 

Mounted on top a striped horse, a youth of about ten and three with skin the color of almonds, waited. The small child quickly caught up alongside the galloping horse. His bare feet kicking up in speed, hurting on the rough ground as his small legs struggled to catch up with the beast.

“Gaomagon bē, Gaomagon bē” the young man chanted, reaching down for him

Effortlessly the tiny child threw himself into the horse’s path, knowing he’d be scooped up into the arms of the young man. In their hurry, they knocked over the bundles of wild grass causing the wrinkled villagers to protest. They looked up, for at that moment they were under the giant shadow, but others along the path gave chase, shouting, shaking their hands at the two. Together they peeled off into the dense scrub, giggling as they sprint into well trodden short-cuts. With the shadow disappearing, and the men receding into the dust they begin to catch their breath. Together they cup their eyes looking into the sky, they were alone, nothing but sparse grasses in the midst of a dry orange ocean.

They reach a nearby city with colorful stalls, and people everywhere. Everyone was busy carrying on with their lives. The older youth unmounts his steed and laughs as he pulls the small child off the animal. 

“Īlon outran zirȳla tubī ao pendagon?” the youth asked as he plopped him down. 

“Daor” he shook his head. He’d seen how even the hrakkar could not outrun the shadow, lest a stubby horse with a queer pattern.

Together, they strode through the sand covered city. A thin line of perspiration marking their brows, and their legs now ashen with sand. Deep in the market, a stall, well-marked by the ages stood alone. The older boy looked around and flicked a few coppers into a bucket. Its usual vendor ladled out a bowl of warm milk from a bubbling vat. To his side, another, rich deep in yellow color catching the attention of the tiny boy. The vendor watched the boy’s eyes lingering over the vat, their deep bruised color of an evening monsoon, gazed at the unreachable feast, salivating to taste the sweet amber liquid.

He nudged the young man, but he did not budge. The vendor, an old wrinkled woman, looks at them too; for a second she sensed the older also had a yearning for a sweet. She gives in and spoons two slices for each, handing the young man a loaf of bread as well. It was dry and hard, heavy in his hand. 

“Child ‘tis a bit young to be trained as you Marlos”

The young man grabs the loaf, swallowing the sliced peaches at the same time. He nods his head in agreement, still savoring the treat. He looks down at the boy, watching him lick his fingers clean of the sweet nectar.

“For now, training is play for child” His arms reached down and pulled the boy up. They were lean, but strength was in them as he threw the tiny boy upon his shoulders, letting his legs dangle freely around his neck. The vendor smiled and shook her head, the years had worn themselves deep into her leathery skin, as so had life, but she’d still found joy within their youth. She waved a dirtied rag at them, shooing them away as one would flies that surrounded the city. Motioning for them to leave.

“straight to his mother you hear?”

* * *

The sun now had begun to settle, letting the coolness in the air return. The soft swaying motion from being atop Marlos shoulders had begun to lull the boy asleep, his eyes closing with each step forward into their path. He felt as Marlos arms pulled him down, placing his bare feet into the warm earth. His hand reached out instinctively for Marlos, entwining tightly against his callused palms. Together they walked side by side, taking in the joyful and free moments they had shared as they turned into the final alley.

There, a house with bone white walls greeted them. It was covered in a hedge that overflowed with bright pink flowers, and despite its deep thorns, welcomed them within its arched red doors. He pushed open the solid doors with the help of Marlos. Inside a few candles lit up its bare walls and a small fire crackled quietly in the corner. Its heat radiated a warm light that highlighted the few pieces of furniture that adorned the space.

A petit woman appeared in front of them. The older youth could see her eyes twitched at the sight of the hardened roll, but quickly reacted to only give the image of delight infront of the small boy. She reached out to wipe his face and hands with a warm moistened cloth.

“Skoro syt gōntan mazemā ao sīr bōsa tubī?” She asked as she took the wrapped leathery hard bread from his companion smiling as she noticed their dirtied appearances.

“ao dohaertan lī bona jorrāelatan dohaeragon?”

The boy nodded his head, he’d done as she’d asked of him, spending his day helping the old and frail. 

“Gōntan ao raqagon aōla?”

“Kessa nyke zūgagon mirri sōvion, īlen zaldrīzes” he was exhausted, but he enjoyed spending time out in the tall grasses. Though his mother would not necessarily approve of his mischief, she always took pleasure at listening to him tell her about his day. Usually it was his mother that would be with him, but lately, men in funny outfits or strange languages he couldn’t understand took up most her day, leaving him to spend his days with mostly with Marlos.

“You must be hungry” she kissed him gently on his forehead and guided him to eat. 

“I had honeyed peaches”

“Is that so?” She glanced over at Marlos who stiffened at his reveal. 

“Well I’m sure there’s enough space for some sweet grass stew” she only chuckled and gestured for the older youth to follow.

“I don’t eat stew, I’m a dragon!

“Last week you thought yourself a frog”

“No more! Frogs eat flies!” She laughed and lightly rustled his hair. 

Once finished with their supper, the child spread out against the warm furs that lay in front of the brazier. His mother had been speaking to someone outside, most likely Marlos kin. Wherever his mother was, they were sure to be close by, though they were not as lively as Marlos. The door closed, causing the child to lift his head lazily, watching as his mother came back in. She bent down and draped her silk scarf around him. She looked tired, and though she hid it well, there was worry in her eyes. He reached out and held his mother tightly, her indistinguishable scent of lavender and mint surrounded them. 

“Are we leaving?” 

“Soon” she responded, lifting him into her arms. 

This was now a routine, to never lingered too long in one place. He wished they could just stay in one place, where they could run through purple fields and eat figs so ripe they’ve split open, or run up and down the many stairs that made up their home. He even missed the woman who smelled of incense, and all her strange ways. He rested his head on her shoulders and ran his small fingers through his mother’s hair. 

“Goodnight my little dragon” she kissed him as he closed his eyes, drifting off to sleep to the soft tinkling song that he knows to be his mothers.


	7. Decisions

Jon chose his crossings carefully, searching for wider, shallower points, in the stream, throwing stones to test the depths. Without the Gelding, it had proven to be a more challenging journey back. Jon used what he thought was ample caution and shared a healthy fear of the forces of Sansa’s wrath, and yet he repeatedly found himself compromised by not taking the Kingsroad. Instead following a small tributary to the White Knife to find a trade ship up to Eastwatch.

Currently, he found himself knee-deep in icy and forceful waters that tried to wrest him off his feet. Sliding the soles of his boots one at a time across the rocky river bottom, and shuffling across the rambling waterway. Once on the other side, he sat massaging feeling back into his numbed legs. Taking the unmarked path, was overwhelming, and without Ghost, the solitude was unnerving. 

He stood; legs red from the cold waters. He’d taken off his furs, planning on trading them for a few silver coins. He now was regretting his decision, as the water was surging with snowmelt, winding hastily through the dense forest of fir, birch and pine. He had scrambled up and down the riverbank, expertly carrying his sword as a spear in his right hand, hoping to use it on some trout. He had been looking for the known flash of movement in the water, anything out of the ordinary, listening for the distinctive sound of fish. _Like a child splashing in the water_ he remembered the freefolk explaining. 

He'd learned to fish in the North, when the freefolk would use the warmer season to spear more cod than usual, when the summer snow melted just enough to get an opening into the frozen water. Late winters had a warm spells that had begun to destroy the texture of the ice, which, while still of the required thickness, did not adequately support their weight. Rotten Ice it was called, and it was exceedingly dangerous, but the freefolk continued to fish, since even with the bad ice it was more than enough.

There, in the north, fishers carried two spiked handles connected by a string to pull themselves out of the water and onto the ice. Here, the waters were quick moving, and the only dangers came from rapid currents, or men. He cared not of each, somehow feeling he subconsciously searched for a way into his permanent darkness.

Jon struck out piercing the water, silver streaks striking its surface as the sun hit it from above. Pulling up longclaw, a foot-long fish flopped weakly as its plump green body began to lose its fight to live. Jon watched silently as it gulped its last mouthfuls of air. Its reddish stripe crossed lengthwise against its heavy black spotting, falling still with the last flop of its tail. He was always good at killing, as much as it helped, it pained him to admit. Jon pulled it off the sword and placed it on the icy bank. The cold water had yielded its hidden gems, and he would be having smoked fish alone that night.

With some spare driftwood he had found, Jon made a fire. Letting it burn down to a pile of coals, he dragged a few large grey rocks to camp and leaned them up against each other around the coals. The speckling of the rocks reminded him of the grey stones that made up the walls of Winterfell, and the way it burned during the battle against the dead, an empty feeling began to fill his gut as he watched the embers burn. Jon thought of the people who looked towards home, using these waterways as their passage, and the others who looked away. For those who looked away, he wondered, if their home continued to whisper, to coax them into glancing over? he thought so, at least for a time. 

He continued to use some twigs to cover the pit, laying the fish horizontally across. When the first handful of wood chips burned out, he placed another under the fish to keep the smoke going at a steady pace, blowing into the coals to keep it at a good temperature, a difficult feat with the icy chill of the weather.

Once enough time had passed, he woofed it down. The fish was moist and slightly salty with a clean flavor. A good balance of smoke and salt, a pleasant tasting fish. Jon laid back into some dead grass behind the bank and watched the sun come down, waiting for the moon and stars to begin their nightly display. Despite a full stomach, he felt empty, lost, searching for the comfort of warmth. Jon watched the steady fall of snow landing hazily on top his body, lulling him to close his eyes.

* * *

As he stood overlooking the vast sea of red sand, marveling at the rhythmic, undulating dunes of his dreams, he struggled with the thoughts of going back. He could not escape his name, lineage or actions, much fewer what others sought from him. Though the Freefolk expected not much of him, his presence would always be that of a burden to them. He pondered if it was worth going back as he made circles on the sand. It shifted effortlessly with his touch, carving shapes as if he would where a child. Above him, the sun seemed to darken, and Jon looked up to see the cause. A large shadow crossed silently infront of it. He cupped his eyes and tried to focus on the familiar shape. As he did, his sight became blurry and the sand shifted under him, taking him down into the cold darkness that hid beneath it.

Jon choked as the black smoke of fires blurred his view overhead. Two shadows approached loudly, but he could not identify them.

“This one's not living?” one asked with a voice that croaked much like a frog.

“I don't know” another prodded him with his staff, Jon stiffly swatting it away.

“He's alive!”

“Take him, tie him up, we’ve yet to know how he wakes.”

“this one is still alive...” the other croaked to let the rest of the group know. Jon felt as they lifted him up and whisked him away, but he could barely move, and his body ached.

He found himself on a wagon that groaned with each turn of its wheels. He was slipping in and out of consciousness, from one world to the next. Sounds startling him and bringing him back to this life. He could see glimpses of himself chained, between others of the red sands and tall grasses, the warmth of living furs and golden eyes quickly flashing across his mind, and the soft voice of a foreign woman through them all.

When he finally came, he tried reaching for his side. It proved to be a futile attempt, in his sleep he had been bound at his wrists and ankles. He struggled trying to loosen his binds, and after a while he had rubbed his wrists raw trying to escape them. He took a moment to look around. The caravan carried other several men as it winded its way through the vast landscape, none bothering to look back in his direction. He felt the rattle of the wagon with each lump of the cobbled road and eyed a lone woman from where he sat. Dressed in a simple canvas cloak, she watched over the cargo.

“How much did your Queen pay for my head?”

“Our Queen knows not of your current predicament” she stated without looking once at him.

“She’s not my Queen” he said disgruntledly to the woman. She ignored his answer.

“your fire must have gone out, leaving you exposed to the chill in these lands…but you couldn’t feel it could you?” she turned to look at him. Long black hair tumbled out from under her cloaks hood. The wind swirling it around her, creating a thin veil that masked her features, but she clearly motioned to her eyes and made a flipping motion with her hand.

“should’ve just left me where I was, let the gods do away with me as seemed fit” he made no effort to agree to what she saw.

“seems they have plans, the others… will be more use to the beasts than the gods” she turned back to her view but waved to a pile that had been covered with a heavy tarp. He could not see underneath it, but the outlines of the shapes clearly let him know what they were.

“They should be burned” her growled. He had come to notice that most foreigners, where oblivious to what had transpired years before, and acted with disregard to new Westerosi customs for the dead.

“still fear them, the dead?” she questioned. Bright green eyes flashing from the reflection of the rising sun on the white covered landscape.

He rolled his head back and closed his eyes, the brightness from the sun dampening behind his eyelids. His head still throbbed, and his body shivered mercilessly against the wind. He no longer felt dread for what may come if the dead would rise again, for they would be a quicker death than what the people of Westeros were going through.

“The clothing you wear...it is not of such quality for cold as the ones you carried.”

“I was anticipating trading them for safe passage north.”

“You should have worn them; how can one seek passage if gone?” She threw his furs onto him, covering most of his body with them.  
“or where you already expecting to wear the fur of another?”

Jon clicked his tongue in annoyance. The furs had quickly worked to block the chill that still bit and clawed at his body as the wagon rolled along. Its squeaky wheels masking the other sounds that surrounded them, eventually, after what seemed a few hours it came to a halt.

They were greeted to a view of the known barges that traveled the White Knife. The woman raised herself and scanned her surroundings, calling one of the men that had lifted Jon onto the wagon. Together they discussed which barge to take as not many would be willing to transport their cargo. He was of an older age, and thin skin marked the times he lived. Jon watched as he quickly shuffled away to another cart with covered cages.

She turned to Jon and took a deep breath. The wind had died down a for a moment, giving him a clear view of this woman. Her bright green eyes shone as emeralds in the late morning sun, and her pale skin was flushed pink only at her cheeks. Surrounding her, with fine plumes of steam that seemed to emanate from her slender body.

“Can I trust to take those binds off of you?” she spoke as she looked at Jon’s wrists.

“It’s not like I have given you reason to not trust me” Jon scoffed as he raised his bound hands up to her. She raised her eyebrow at his words and adjusted herself to grip him better.

“Trust is a dangerous game” she said as she used a small dagger to cut off the binds. Her eyes never leaving his as she spoke her words.

“I’m to assume if I offered you safe passage, you’d be willing to help with the cargo?”

He shook his head grinning at her offer. It was not like he would be getting much other opportunities.

“and my sword?”

“You’ll get your bastard sword back at white harbor.”

He nodded in agreement as she raised herself back up. Something was strangely familiar about her, her sweet smokey smell, and stoic mannerisms, though unnerving to him, still provided Jon a sense of comfort.

"Don't do something stupid. I will feed you to the beasts. They are worth more than you are” she gestured to a cart carrying the cages.

* * *

When they arrived, the thick salty air of the harbor clung heavily to their noses. Jon looked up past the whitewashed stone houses, their steeply pitched roofs of dark grey slate adorning the hillsides that led up to New Castle.

The once bustling small city seemed to have that as much of a population as Hardhome. The usual noticeable white stacks of smoke that signaled life within its walls, were sparse, even though the cold bit into his face with the ferocity of a shadowcat.

“Where do you take the beasts?” He asked.

“East”

The ship lurched as it made dock, announcing its arrival with groans and creaks of its wooden planks. Grey cold waves lapped eagerly at their sides, retreating quickly to rock the larger ships that lay abandoned nearby.

Before the plague, Manderly ships used to make sail to Essos taking within their hulls the many men and woman that wanted to escape these lands. They would travel along the western coast, their proud sails flapping in the winds waving down those who sought them out. That was before they began arriving east with more corpses than the living. Each marked with sickening black splotches across their bodies.

Pentos was the first port city to close its harbor to Westerosi ships. Then Tyrosh followed suit with Braavos close behind. Anything further than those cities need not worry, as no ship would arrive to their port unless their cargo was free of disease, as ships cannot sail with a crew of corpses.

“Westerosi ships are refused berth East, unless from Dorne” the plague had not hit them, and he hoped that Storms End was privy to their luck as well.

She raised her cloak to make a safe exit onto the dock. A shiny red fabric peaked for an instant from under the canvas as she did. She turned to look back at Jon. Her eyes piercing into his.

“Then it seems I must set our sails south.” She walked over to where her belongings lay to be moved to a larger ship. She pulled out the Valyrian sword, and though usually heavy, she carried it effortlessly in her hands.

He picked up his sword and placed it in his scabbard, taking a tentative step off the long riverboat.

“If you are to change your mind, our ship will depart due south come the sunrise of three days’ time. Sometimes it’s the smallest decision that will change your life forever.”

Jon let out a long sigh. How much her words burned into his chest, He had made many decisions in life, and he could not recall many where he had felt at ease after making them. Even if he had had changed but one, he may have never met Dany. Though maybe that would have been for the best, as she would still more than likely be alive.

“I am sorry, I never got your name?”

“Kinvara”


	8. Somniabunt

She had never felt as peaceful as she did in that moment, light as a feather, falling softly in an endless nightfall as a warmth began to wash over her. The pain she had felt earlier now slowly fading away as a light scent of turpentine began to filter into her senses. It reminded her of green pines, and smoky campfires, of lemon trees and the light scent of a freshly scrubbed chamber. She could see smoky wisps swirling around the darkness, almost inviting her to follow in an entrancing dance.

“Dany...” she could hear it whisper “Dany...tell them, tell them” She shook her head; she could not tell them anything, for she knew she was no longer.

“You woke the dragon...” almost inaudible, barely even a whisper “…can’t you see”

“No. No!” she choked out. The sound of her voice dispersing the tendrils of smoke and with them its cries.

“I... I didn’t...I..” her voice quaked in shame and regret. She had woken a part of her she was afraid to admit had been buried deep within her. The queen of ashes, mad queen, just like her father, a fool just like her brother, alone, drifting in complete darkness. The sting of the first tear made itself known, hot and smoldering as it rolled down her cheek. Quickly followed by an unbroken stream of sorrow, hissing, and searing as it marked her skin. She tried pressing her palms to her cheeks, resting her elbows on top of her knees and began to sob. 

Around her the darkness boomed and began to crack, with vivid fissures red and bright, like the one in the center of her chest, spewing a lazy river that meandered down a starless night sky. Its heat was so potent that it dried her throat like a horse’s carcass in the dead heat of the Red Waste. She tried breathing, but her lungs rattled and burned as the blackness rumbled in anger, so loud that it seemed to fall down around her, giving way to a mottled night sky, and with it, long grasses that swayed their ghostly stalks across a land that was starved of light and clean air.

Beneath her, Daenerys could feel the ground shaking, and the thunder of a thousand’s hooves hitting the ground. She tried to search for where it came from, but it surrounded her from all sides and a familiar scent of grass and wet earth infiltrated her senses. She dug her toes into the earth, feeling its warmth as she took tentative steps into the night. But the grass withered and rattled with each of her steps, spreading out across the vastness until it was nothing more than dust and dirt. She could still hear the screams of women and children, the trumpeting of horses, and the thick sweet metallic scent of blood. She stood alone looking into the vastness in front of her. It smelled of rotten eggs, and from afar, a fire seemed to grow brighter and brighter in the west, until it looked as though the whole land was ablaze under a rising sun. 

She could not help thinking of all those that had suffered under her wrath, one meant only to destroy those that had taken the lives of the ones she loved. She had let her rage swallow her whole, allowing her to burn everything within her path. It was as if the world had gone dark, cold, and the terrible smell of death had taken over, wrapping its hard-clammy arms around her and tightening its grip. The cawing of a crow snapped her out of her thoughts, and she could see again, but she was only greeted with the sight of carnage below her.

“forgive them” called out a silhouette. It moved towards her, flowing over the scorched earth. A wolf, thin with muddy fur clinging tightly from its emaciated body, peered out from within the half-light that eerily illuminated her close surroundings.

“they took all that I had left” she responded somberly. She did not even have a chance to give them a proper burial, she wondered if anyone was left to light her a fire. Would they ever know how it felt to lose their children, their loved ones, betrayed by those closest to them? She wanted them dead, all of them, every last one. The wolf crept closer, its mangy fur sloughing off with each step.

“It must be a world of mercy” it whimpered falling to the floor before her feet. She wanted to scorn the wolf for suggesting such things. Instead she felt pity for the creature, wanting mercy for those that would never give it back. Above them the crow circled and dove down to tear at the flesh of the beast, pecking at it in a ferocious manner and quickly turning to her attention. The wolf raised itself, bloodied and bare of all its fur and with one clasp of its powerful jaws disposed of the feathered creature.

He snarled, its black eyes flickering as freshly lit coal as its back began to twist in a grotesque manner. Its legs strewn to its sides and forming into leathered wings. He lunged at the open wound on her chest. She choked as blood spluttered from her mouth as he tore into her, plunging his black, needle like teeth, deep into her belly, filling her with a blistering heat; and all that he was radiated around her, and for a brief moment she found herself back in a sea of white as her tiny body trembled in pain, buckling down as flames poured out of her mouth, scorching the earth before her.

She woke to a sharp gasp for air and an intense burning pain that radiated from her core, there, on a hot stone slab, she awoke to the thunder of Drogon’s wings. She was completely bare of all physical materials as she rose from her waist up, almost puppet like in her movements. Her breathing was ragged, and with each short breath, she could feel a searing pain coming from within her left side and up towards her back and shoulder. She immediately clutched at her chest, flinching at her own touch. There between her ribcage, still raw and wet, was a narrow-jagged slit.

“The lord has chosen!” a small framed woman bellowed out to the darkness.

Daenerys grimaced as she laboriously struggled to look up at the woman before her. Before them, a large fire roared, and casted the woman in front of her in dark lighting. Daenerys could barely manage to keep her vision straight, shutting her eyes as a haze began to form around her vision. She sluggishly fell forward as her body gave up on itself, fighting herself to stay conscious, to open her eyes again, trying to focus on the woman who had miraculously caught her fall. She smelled of a smoky scent, and her olive black hair made her green eyes glisten like emeralds. Daenerys struggled breathing and felt as the haziness returned to accompany the heaviness inside her head. 

“Sleep child, for the night is dark...” the woman began to speak, but she had already closed her eyes again, letting the blackness within her consume her until she was the only one left surrounded by a loud silence. 

When she finally woke, there was a prevalent taste of blood and ash in her mouth. It was a dreadful reminder of all that had transpired. Her body trembled feverishly as it tried to warm itself, causing a horrid pain to radiate outwards from her heart, a deep panging pain that had only quieted in the darkness of death. She let out a blood curdling scream finally letting it out of her chest, and cursed at the priestesses that surrounded her, she cursed their god, she cursed herself and she even cursed Drogon for bringing her there, For bringing her back.

She tried to stand, but she had no strength to keep herself standing. One priestess tried desperately to clothe her, and each time, Daenerys would rip off her robes until she was bare on the floor of her chambers. The fine silks felt like burlap on her skin, and she wished they would leave her alone, to close the windows and stop the daylight from filtering in. She wanted to go back to the darkness, but instead, she was surrounded by light that burned, and her head spun until she threw up the remaining blood and bile that coated her insides. Shivering endlessly and lashing out at those who tried to help. 

She could not remember how long she had laid on the stone floors of the temple, but enough time had passed, that she whimpered in agony as she was moved to the softness of a down filled cot. She could see where her once unblemished body now showed lesions from being carried by Drogon. She tried to swallow but found it hard and painful to do so, weakly lifting her hand up to throat. Her chest ached from the movement, searing in pain as she passed over the raw open gash that decorated it. She could not recall what hurt more, the memory of the act, or the actual physical wound. 

A priestess brought forth a clear colored broth and tried to bring a spoonful to her lips. Daenerys lifted one of her hands as another quickly moved down to her stomach, feeling as it churned in pain between bruised ribs and slightly protruding hips. It was hot to the touch, slightly swollen and marred with bruises. Daenerys turned her body, tightly curling into herself as she tried to remember the last time, she had eaten anything willingly, but she could not recall. Not since before arriving at Dragonstone. Her fingers picked at her raw and bloody lips, split, and scabbed painfully at their edges. She could not recall one meal that had settled comfortably, be it from the fear of poisoning or from the death of Missandei and Rhaegal.

"Many people here still see you as their savior"

She recognized the voice and scoffed at the priestess words. The people knew nothing she thought. They only saw Dragons and what they could do. The ones who were freed, saw her as their liberator, but many had suffered at their newfound freedom; and those that once benefited from slavery, saw her with disdain. She knew many would have done anything to see the dragon banners fall, how they would praise Jon Snow if they knew.

“Your fire is a thing of magnificence...Yet such fire belongs in the hands of one who can handle it, who can tame it to a steady flame that acts on your behest instead making you its puppet” Kinvara took the bowl and raised the spoon once again to her lips “It takes a great internal strength to tame such a powerful flame”

“I have no strength left in me” her voiced rasped, did she ever have it?

“A mother’s strength can lead others out of darkness even when their own light is faltering”

“Drogon is better off without me” how can she consider herself a mother when she had let so many of her children down.

“Ah, yes… Mother of Dragons? Prophecies are a strange thing”

* * *

Waking up is no longer the pleasure it once was. There is a brief moment when she is whole again, but it evaporates faster than midsummer showers off the scorched earth. Her eyes once heavy with sleep snap open as violently as if she had woken on the stone slab in the Temple of R’hllor once more. She had not had those dreams for a week now, but that did not mean she would remain untouched. She looks out her window, half the dwellings continue to stand, and they are crowded with grieving survivors. She is one of them, one of the dispossessed, relying on the charity of others. So, by the time her eyes are fully open she has become overwhelmed all over again, as if it were all new, fresh, raw. She wished she could continue in the darkness of her dreams or else never sleep. She closed her arms around herself, trying to rub the chill out of her bones. She felt as someone stirred beside her, reaching out to rub her back.

“Tell me about all the things that you remember” his voice was low, but lacking any sign of sleepiness

She could recall how the cold white snow covered the land in a blanket of death and a flurry of black wings took flight.

“When you're ready” he murmured

“When I close my eyes, I can still see the forest in winter”  
“What happened there?” whatever had, has profoundly changed her, his face said it all.

“What can I say?” The more she mulled over them the more her thoughts became blotted, always finding more questions than answers.

“Whatever you want” He has set a trap, and she is caught between opposing needs. She needs his warmth, and he seems to provide the affection, but what then? What when you cannot give the affection back and your company cannot provide the emotions than alter the tides with wishes. So her only choice is to choose between her needs, and refuse to acknowledge something vital to her healing to not invoke resentment.

“I killed him. My brother” she changes the subject

“You brother?... Khal Drogo Killed him”

“I killed him” she corrected him

“Daenerys” the man reached to gently touch her hand, but she only glared at him, and beneath her gaze an inferno burned in the recesses of her mind.

“I killed a lot of people” she pushed back, she reminded him who she was, who she could still be.

“You are a Conqueror” she turned her head at those words.

“Let's go… together. Your people will be there”

“Where?” she mocks him, he knew better.

“Meereen, the people will accept the new faith in the wake of our Queen"

“What?” she questions his sanity.

“What would we do without you? How can I do it without you?”

“you will have to go yourself” she cannot believe what he’s telling her, what he’s implying

“but I cannot rule there alone” his needs are obvious, he needs her as she needs his affection, but she cannot provide him what he wants not without putting her own needs at risk.

“I was never a Queen”

“Do you hear yourself? You have always been. Get revenge for their treason” his frustration slowly pokes through his voice, disbelieving the woman that sits before him is no longer the woman he once knew.

“No”

“No what?...You rose from the dead” he tried persuading her reminding her of her resilience to adversities handed to her.

“You believe that?” she seemed to question this reality, for she did not feel alive.

“Well, I will have to see” he tried bringing her down on top of him tracing his fingers across the small of her back, taking in her scent as he tried to lighten the mood.

“What do you want to see?” she pushed back against his chest, her sea colored eyes bouncing between his russet ones, seemingly searching for something herself. There is a familiarity to him she just cannot shake, not a memory per se, but distant echoes that call to her.

“Come with me and I'll believe” his lips tried to persuade her and from the drumming of his random ideas comes some order, a subtle awareness of who she is under the flow of his thoughts, and their loose connections to her waking life. The saddest part of them is, that in the long run even the memory of hers will fade and she would be left with this desolate feeling of detachment, left to explore in the empty void of dreams, the only proof that she ever had lived to begin with and she pulls away.

“You said that there was nothing in death, so what is it that haunts your sleep?”

“Myself”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have the second part of this almost complete. I split this up in portions, as this was getting long and i've already taken longer than expected to complete this.

**Author's Note:**

> I have noticed people like darker stories and will try to implement this into the chapters. There will be deaths


End file.
